Many Happy Returns

I suppose I should write about my birthday.

I'm not doing anything special. In fact, I'm at my desk, at work, and it feels just like any other day (except I've been decorating Christmas trees). But still, I am 25.

25 years.

It seems like a pretty long time. 25 is really the first of the landmark birthdays to be a negative one. 18 is fine, it means you can legally drink. 21 is a coming of age thing. 25, though. You're grown-up then. At 25, I could be on Friends (the first series).

I think your prime decade is probably 25-35. After that it's essentially downhill. And I haven't really got as much going on in my life/career/experience as I'd like. By now, I should have toured with a punk band or invented a cylindrical waffle or made my first million. At this rate of income, I'm not going to make my first million until I'm around 100. And that's if I don't spend any of it, which seems unlikely. The chance of me resisting ordering a Domino's pizza for the next 75 years isn't high.

I'm not crazy about birthdays. I think the mother should receive gifts on the anniversary of their child's birth instead. They did all the hard work. Except my mum had a Caesarean Section - lazy.

My disinterest in my birthday is made worse by the memory of how excited I used to be at this time of year. I couldn't sleep. Birthday then Christmas! Brilliant! But now I feel cynical and old.

25.

To be honest, my age doesn't really bother me. But lack of achievment is. I think the coming year will be a big one. I'll be sending off writing everywhere and trying to find some calling. In a year's time, if I'm still writing this blog, I'll be able to see how far I've come.

And I'll realise that I'm still an office temp with delusions of grandeur, and I'll pierce my temple with a stapler.

Oh well, at least Lucy's made me a spectacular cake!

(That's made a cake for me, rather than making me into one. Although, rest assured, if I were a cake, I would be fucking spectacular.)